


Midtide (or, an interlude)

by Phosphorite



Series: wind, waves & an ocean at our feet [2]
Category: Free!
Genre: M/M, Post-Break Up, Prequel, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 03:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phosphorite/pseuds/Phosphorite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whether or not he was going against some unspoken script by ignoring the silence and the lack of contact, there was still something he really had left to say.</p><p>[oneshot sequel for Wind Waves, prequel for Ocean Waves]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midtide (or, an interlude)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi.
> 
> As some of you know, I recently returned from a 3 week trip from Iwami to Tokyo to Sydney. During that time, I kept writing Ocean Waves, a.k.a the sequel to Wind Waves, but there was something about it that refused to click before I wrote this little oneshot to bridge the gap between the two stories.
> 
> In short, this is a tiny sequel to Wind Waves that takes place between chapter 18 and the Epilogue - in other words, also a prequel to Season 2, and thus a prequel to Ocean Waves.
> 
> As to why I had to write it; well, I hope it'll make sense soon.
> 
> I hope you like it anyway.

 

 

 

All throughout the train ride, he couldn't stop staring.

There was something about the trail of frost clinging to the window that held his gaze. An intricate, white plume branching out, trickling down the surface with a jagged edge... he couldn't say why it left him so transfixed, but it helped distract him until the display finally lit up with his stop.

Maybe it felt like a sign. The first frost plume of the Winter, and the fume of his breath when the crisp air plunged into his lungs. Or was it–– nerves, really, making his throat well up in the minutes it took to reach the familiar school yard; a yard he felt he was trespassing on, now, as opposed to the times he had walked in invited.

But everything changes.

At the registry, it felt weird to state his name; weirder, yet, to state the name of the person he had come to meet. It hadn't... felt this way, the last time he was here, like there was a weight that clung to that name now, making him stall on the first syllable before glancing away.

Like it wasn't his right to be here, anymore.

Still, the lady only gave him a blank nod. A courteous gesture and the words _you can go into the dorms now, but please mind the visitation hours_ followed him down the corridor, tugging a mirthless smile on his lips. After all, there was a time none of it had mattered –the hours, the rules– in a world built on the secrets shared inside these walls.

For a moment, he felt his step falter.

Maybe it wasn't just nerves – maybe he really shouldn't have come. But if the silence of the past few weeks had not deterred him, neither would the last few feet now that he was here: whether or not he was going against some unspoken script by ignoring that lack of contact, there was still something he really had left to say.

Even so, his heart pounded in erratic beats as soon as he knocked on the door.

"Just a–– Please, hold on––"

The response came muffled yet enthusiastic through the wall. A split second before the door swung open, that same voice had gained enough momentum to spill over the first consonant of a name that was not his.

"Nnn––"

Nitori came to a full stop in the doorway, swallowing the vowel that would have undoubtedly followed.

"...T, Tachibana-san. Sorry, I didn't realize the... visitor was you."

When he lifted his eyes, the regret he swallowed as well made something pang right across Makoto's chest. But it wasn't out of insult, or any personal offense at Nitori's stifled disappointment; because he knew as well as Nitori did that it wasn't aimed at Makoto's presence.

(No, it was a disappointment aimed at the lack of that of someone _else_ ; of the shadow that hung in the very place he was standing now, clinging to that doorway like an aura they could both still sense.)

Tilting his head, the tone Makoto summoned up was as non-threatening as possible, to help both of them pretend like it wasn't really there.

"Is... Rin's here, right?"

Obviously relieved by the change of subject, Nitori gave him a quick nod. "He went–– Rin-senpai's always training lately. But he usually gets back at around this time."

As a quick back-step made enough space for Makoto to enter, he watched Nitori hide his hands behind his back. It didn't hide his fidgety posture, though, or the way he kept stealing glances at Makoto until his hesitation turned to resolve.

"...Uhm," Nitori finally breathed out, "...Tachibana-san, I know it's probably none of my business, but... I was wondering... Well, how, how is––"

"Makoto?"

Both of them gave a light start at the voice in the doorway.

It was–– a puzzled one, hanging somewhere between a question and a statement. Rin's tone was low but soft, the look on his face was equally calm; slightly out of breath, strands of red hair stuck to Rin's temples where his toweled hand had come to a surprised halt. Still, something in his eyes remained on guard.

There was no hostility to it, just... an age-old caution, like a rawness of the past weeks that hadn't quite escaped Rin's instincts. It wasn't as though Makoto could blame him, though – somewhere behind that exhaustion Rin must have felt alarmed, prepared for any bad news that might explain the unexpectedness of Makoto's visit.

 _He's fine_ , Makoto wanted to say, the need to reassure Rin coming to him just as intuitively. But it wasn't only Rin's pride that made Makoto hold his tongue, but the realization that such words also would have been a lie.

(Because what he should have said, what he _wanted_ to say, was this:

 _He's not fine_. _You're not fine. None of this is fine, and all of us_ know _––_ )

But the words never left his lips.

"I'm sorry to just barge in like this," Makoto said instead, hiding the sting in a smile as he gestured towards the door, "...I hope it's not too much of a bother."

His casualness must have dissolved any nightmare-scenarios in Rin's head, because it made Rin pause before settling for a nod.

"...It's okay. I was just about to take a break, anyway.”

The response did not sound bothered, but not exceptionally enthusiastic either. Next to them, Nitori straightened his spine in haste like he'd forgotten the kettle on a lid five weeks ago.

"I'm," he began, flustered, "I think I needed to. Ask something. From someone. Somewhere. For a while. Or a long while."

Watching him scamper from the room, Rin took a deep breath. Shaking his head, the towel in his hands slung on the back of a chair in a single fluid movement before he glanced over his shoulder. The look on his face was as unreadable as before, but no longer guarded in a way Makoto had feared.

"So..." Rin said, and it sparked a memory that made Makoto pull at the backpack still fastened on his shoulder.

"I, uh," he began, suddenly second-guessing the excuse he had come up with in case Rin wasn't in the mood for company after all, "There's... Well, I brought you some things. You know–– that are yours? That you'd forgotten at–– I mean––"

At the unintentional trip of his words, Makoto felt like kicking himself as Rin's shoulders tensed up like a cornered animal. But instead of a blow-up, in a matter of moments the charge in Rin's body dissolved into silence, and Makoto swallowed in half-relief.

"...Alright," was what Rin replied with, decidedly keeping his eyes fixed on the back of the chair, "...Just leave them on my desk, and I'll go through everything later. It's fine."

 _None of this is fine_ , Makoto wanted to say again. No, part of him wanted to scream it aloud for the sixteenth time this week, the way it still did each morning when confronted by a lifeless, blue stare at the top of the stairs; but he never could, never would, never knew what to _say_ ––

"Thank you for coming, though," Rin added, and as his chin finally lifted to meet Makoto's gaze, the sheer effort in Rin's smile made something inside Makoto twist into knots.

“…You didn’t reply to my messages,” he spoke just as softly, encouraged by Rin’s willingness to meet him half-way. It decidedly made Rin wince again, but he simply shook his head.

“…Yeah, I’m–– sorry, about that,” Rin replied, trying to soften his words with a casual laugh that sounded neither real nor sincere, “I’ve just been busy, and––“

“…Rin.”

 _It’s really unfair, that thing you do_ , Nagisa had once told Makoto, referring to the way he could disarm another person with a tilt of his head; and it wasn't that it always worked, or that he was even doing it on purpose, but something about Rin's natural energy had always made it easier for Makoto to find his courageous nerve.

Easier, somehow, to lean out to that fading radiance, whether or not it would only slip from his reach.

"Look, I know... things have been weird," Rin finally said, hovering between concession and defeat, "But I'm not–– it's not like when I came back. I'm not going anywhere this time, and nothing's... changed. You're still my friends too."

And yet, Makoto would have been deaf not to hear the unspoken implication in his final words –

( _but when you break up with someone, you can't split your friends in two_

 _and right now,_ he _needs you more than I do_ )

––and the undeniable truth of it still made the tiny part inside Makoto want to scream.

"It's alright," he heard himself repeat anyway, and it came out like automation, or another cue. And maybe there would come a time when he wouldn't feel as weighed down by hesitation, or let this bizarre fear tie down his tongue, but when Rin nodded at Makoto, all he could do was return the nod.

"You're free to stay for longer if you want," Rin went on, switching subjects as though water gliding off his back, "But I've still got more training to do tonight."

"I thought you already..." Makoto began, and Rin let out a sheepish laugh.

"Yeah, well. You know how it goes.”

There was an air of hopefulness to his voice, like a plead that Makoto wouldn't make him state the obvious; that it wasn't practice he kept returning to over and over again, but a state of non-thinking, non-feeling, when all that mattered was the rush of adrenaline in his ears.

(Like the boy who still spent every day submerged with water, staring at the ceiling cocooned in silence; who only ever surfaced for sleeping and school, or the off chance Makoto could coax him to eat.)

 _Of course I know how it goes_ , he wanted to say, _This is what both of you_ do _._

But he didn't say that either.

Because what he heard himself say instead, was this:

"...You know you have to talk about this sometime, Rin."

He wasn’t sure where that bluntness suddenly came from, any more than he knew what made him so audacious as to say it aloud. But what Makoto did know was the cause for Rin's expression, flashing from calm to frustrated, before he once more yanked his head away.

"...Don't you get it?" Rin muttered, but his voice did not sound threatening so much as... helpless; because what followed wasn't an excuse, not another feeble attempt to hide, but the honest admission that there simply wasn't any room left for regret:

"...I don't _have_ any more time."

 

 

 

By the portside, the lanterns hanging off the sides of fishing boats made the water dance in a sea of moonbeams.

Further up the hill, he could almost sense the light flooding down from their window, gliding along the sound of his sister scolding their brother as his mother cleared supper away. Ten, twenty steps more and the chill of the deepening night would disappear into that warmth like it always did, but this time something held Makoto from pausing at the landing, long before he noticed the figure hunched at the steps.

"...Hey," he breathed out, and even in the half-light he saw it: the wet strands of dark hair, the alert shoulders, the stare that looked alive like nothing in Haruka's eyes had done in days.

Makoto took a deep breath.

Haruka said nothing, of course. There was a glint of water trickling down the side of his cheek, one he gave zero regard. Even as the wind made the trees rustle, he sat there patient and expectant, as though waiting Makoto to answer the question both of them knew he would never directly ask.

 _He's fine_ , Makoto almost spoke up, the need to reassure him just as intuitive as it had been with Rin. But as much as their shared history still made Makoto hold back so many things he wanted to tell Haruka, it was one thing to hold his silence, and another to speak such an unabashed lie.

 _He's not fine. You're not fine. None of this is fine, and there's nothing I can_ do _––_

"...You'll catch a cold like that, Haru. You want to come inside?"

One of these days, it might not be this way.

This–– whole cycle, of all of them running away from the things they really should have said. But right now it was all Makoto _could_ express, to not feel the full weight of failure when Haruka simply lowered his gaze and muttered, "...It's alright."

In the strangest of all senses, he must have gotten what he'd come for through everything Makoto did not admit outright. Pushing back to his feet, Haruka glanced over his shoulder once more before heading back up.

"...I'll see you in the morning," he spoke, but there was something evasive to his eyes.

Even after Haruka's footsteps dulled in the distance, Makoto held still, not entering the house to his right. There was that part of him again, feeling like–– seizing that bizarre, sudden urge to dash out after Haruka, to grab him by the arm and yell _Is this really what you want?!_ , but knew it was as selfish as it was naive: he would never dash, and Haruka would never speak, and at the end of the day...

( _Just what right do you have to call him out on his cowardice_

 _when you cannot even confront your own?_ )

Perhaps it was a combination of many things that made his feelings boil over. The naked disappointment on Nitori's face, or Rin's attempts to pretend he wasn't drowning his loneliness in practice – and how that very loneliness still made Haruka reach out and withdraw in consequent succession, like an endless game of _will he won't he_ that never yielded any winners.

All of this, it... suddenly felt so overwhelming that it made Makoto sprint out into a run, right back into the direction he'd come. Down the hill, around and across the port in the wavering light of street lamps that welcomed him towards the beach, so that by the time he hit the foot of the shrine, all that remained in his ears was the heated _thump thump thump_ of his pulse.

It helped, kind of. To quell the helplessness, to help him breathe. And maybe it could have been enough to tide him over for tonight, but a faint rustle in the woods made him glance up towards the shrine, then begin an unplanned ascent.

Even if it was on a whim, he couldn't help it. Cautiously approaching through the gates, past the stone sculptures and towards the offering box, he paused for a moment to think about what it was that he was really here for.

Did he think a simple wish could change anything?

About Haruka's solitude?

Rin's resilience?

His friends' happiness?

Or his own?

_(Oh, but you know)_

The clangor of the bells broke the darkness when his hands gripped the rope, but the sound came out hearty rather than harsh. The clap of his hands was softer, his silence softer still; but in those seconds of peace, his prayer came clear like the bite of an early Winter.

_I wish_

_for all of us to stop being so afraid_

_of finding what we're really looking for_

 

That was all, that was all.

Drawing in a deep breath, Makoto let his shoulders relax and turned around. But before he could so much as move another muscle, he heard it: something in the darkness, alerting him with a sudden gust of wind.

(like the ting of a bell, or

perhaps a chime)

But when he whirled around, there was nobody there.

Instinctively, he glanced around until finally lifting his eyes to the sky; against the pitch black vault, the flickering light of a plane moved steadily amidst the stars. For a second he paused, as if knowing here and now that the memory of that moment would cling to him for months to come.

Why, well... who could tell?

After all, it probably didn't mean anything.

Maybe, maybe not.

(Or maybe _yes_ )

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Next time, on the same swimming hell channel: Ocean Waves.


End file.
